My beloved and divine Mamita of my heart,

Every day I open my eyes at 4am and prepare to be wide awake to listen to your message on the [radio]. My daily joy consists of hearing your voice, sensing your love, your tenderness, your steadfastness.

This is dense jungle where the sunlight scarcely ever penetrates and it is barren of affection, sympathy or tenderness. That is why your voice is my umbilical cord to life. Without you I would not have been able to endure till now.

I am tired, Mamita, tired of suffering. I have been, or have tried to be, strong. These nearly six years of captivity have proved that I am not as resistant, not as brave, not as intelligent, not as strong as I thought. I have put up many battles, have tried to escape several times, have tried to keep up hope like one keeps one’s head above water.

But, Mamita darling, I give up. I would like to think that one day I will get out of here, but I realise that what happened to the congressmen [last June Farc executed 11 provincial deputies, kidnapped five years before] – which affected me so deeply – could happen to me at any moment.

I believe it would be a relief for everybody. I feel that my children are on “standby” with their lives, waiting for me to get out. Your daily suffering, and everybody else’s, makes death appear to me almost a sweet option. [I would] be with my dear Papito [her father, who died a month after her abduction], for whom I have mourned every day for the past four years.

I keep thinking that at last I am going to cry no more. But the pain starts up again and attacks me like a vicious dog and I again feel my heart breaking into pieces. I am tired of suffering, of bearing it all inside me all the time, of lying to myself, of believing that this will soon end and finding that every new day is the same hell as the one before.

I think of my children, my three children – of Sebastian [her stepson], Mela [Melanie], and Loli [Lorenzo]. My inability to be there for them, to assuage their pain, to be able to advise them or give them strength and patience and humility in the face of life’s blows, all the lost opportunities to be their mama poison these moments of infinite loneliness for me, as if I have been given an intravenous injection of cyanide.

I haven’t been eating; my appetite has shut down; my hair is falling out in clumps; I have no desire for anything because, here in this jungle, the only answer to everything is “No”. It is better not to want anything so as to be free, at least, of desires.

I have been asking for an encyclopedia for the past three years in order to have something to read, to learn something, to keep intellectual curiosity alive. It is better not to think about it. Thereafter, anything at all is a miracle, even hearing you in the mornings, because the radio I have is very old and damaged.

Every day I wait anxiously to see if you are going to mention the children. That is what makes me happy; all the rest doesn’t matter.

Life here is no life; it is a gruesome waste of time. I live, or survive, in a hammock strung between two poles, covered with mosquito netting and a canvas that acts as a roof, which makes me feel like I have a house. I have a shelf on which to keep my belongings; that is to say, the knapsack with my clothes and a Bible, my only luxury.

Everything is prepared for leaving on the run. Here, nothing is one’s own, nothing lasts; uncertainty and precariousness are the only constant. The order is given at any moment to pack up and one gets to sleep stretched out anywhere, like an animal.

My palms sweat, my mind gets foggy and I end up doing things twice as slowly as normal. The marches are a calvary because my baggage is very heavy. Sometimes the guerrillas carry things of mine to lighten my load, leaving “the pots” for me, but all of it is a strain.

Things of mine are lost or taken, like the jeans that Mela gave me for Christmas, which I was wearing when I was kidnapped. I never saw them again. All I could save was the jacket, which was a blessing because the nights are freezing and I had nothing else for protection.

Being the only woman in the group, I have to be covered up: shorts, blouse and boots. So I bathe [in clothes] like our grandmothers did. Before, I used to enjoy swimming. Now, I don’t even look forward to that. I’m weak, chilly, like a cat approaching the water.

I try to keep quiet, to talk as little as possible to avoid trouble. A woman’s presence among all those prisoners who have been in captivity for eight to 10 years is a problem. I write little because the notebooks pile up and carrying them is torture. I have already burnt four. Besides, on the searches they take away whatever one is most anxious to keep. Every day less and less of myself remains. Everything is hard. That’s the reality.

It is important that I dedicate these lines to those who are my oxygen, my life – to those who keep my head above water, who do not let me drown into oblivion, emptiness and despair.

Give my blessing to my children, the three of them, Sebastian, Mela and Loli, so that it may accompany them on every step they take. Tell them that they [are] my source of joy in this harsh captivity.

Everything here has two sides: joy comes with pain, happiness is sad, love cures and opens new wounds; to remember is to live and to die anew.

For years I was unable to think of the children. I would feel as though I was smothering, that I couldn’t breathe. I nearly went mad on the death of my father. I never knew how it happened, who was with him, if he left me a message, a letter, a blessing. But, with the years, what has alleviated my torment is the thought that he died trusting in God and that one day I will be there to hug him. Of that I am certain.

And now I can hear [my children on the radio] and feel more joy than pain. I sustain myself with the images I keep in my memory. I sing “Happy Birthday” to them on every birthday. If [my captors] bring a cookie or some dish of rice and beans, I make believe it is a cake and celebrate their birthdays in my heart.

If I were to die today, I would go satisfied with life, thanking God for my children.

Mamita, [my captors] have come for the letters. I won’t be able to cover all I would like to write.

Over many years I have thought that as long as I live, as long as I breathe, I must keep up hope. I no longer have the same strength and it is now difficult for me to keep on believing. And so I don’t want to say goodbye. God willing, this will reach you. You are deep in my soul, my loveliest Mamita.

As always and for ever, your daughter, Ingrid Betancourt

An edited extract from Letters to My Mother: A Message of Love, A Plea for Freedom, by Ingrid Betancourt, Mélanie Delloye-Betancourt and Lorenzo Delloye-Betancourt, to be published by Abrams in May at £7.99. Copies can be ordered for £7.59 including postage from The Sunday Times BooksFirst on 0870 165 8585

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